Scafell Pike Trail Marathon 2021

There’s a beautiful section at the start of the Scafell Pike Trail Marathon. You skirt the side of Derwentwater, past jetties glistening in the morning sun, clouds breaking over the hill tops around about. The route undulates along trails and paths, behind Castle Crag and through the ferns into picturesque Borrowdale. If you’re not careful, you could start to think you were in for a fast and pretty trail race.

You breeze into Seathwaite, the first drinks station, and feel unstoppable. Smiles all around. Someone asks a marshal if there’s coke, and they’re cheerfully told that’s for the way back down. And so we continue on with the sound of cow bells ringing in our ears.

Leaving Seathwaite there’s another mile of gentle undulation before the mask slips and Dr Jekyll transforms suddenly into the evil Mr Hyde. We start to climb steeply into the rocky corridor route and the weather decides to unleash hell.

My body twists as I fall and land facing backwards. The pain of impact shot through my elbow and, as I tried to move, worse pain throbbed in my thigh.

I’m haunted by a vague memory of jumping over a stream in the early stages to avoid getting wet feet. A bit pointless when an hour later you’re soaked to the skin in unrelenting rain and murk. I’ve learned from an unpleasant experience in the Mournes last year that if you’re ascending into heavy rain, the waterproof is essential. Days like this are why we carry all this extra kit.

The climb becomes gentler as we pass between Seathwaite Fell and Base Brown, not that you could see any scenery given the conditions. After Styhead Tarn things get steep and rocky again. The rock, smoothed by years of hiking boots, becomes a skating rink of grease underfoot.

I was at about 600m of elevation when the inevitable happened, striding over a small gap in the rocks I stacked it. My body twisted as I fell and landed facing backwards. The pain of impact shot through my elbow and, as I tried to move, worse pain throbbed in my quad and thigh. The runners immediately behind pulled me to my feet.

Life in slow motion. Every movement hurts but I’m trying to brave face it. I try to run but that’s not working. Balance gone and struggling, I follow advice to walk a while and get my legs back.

It’s 5km back down to Seathwaite and I’m close to quitting. Every time I put weight on my left leg it screams at me. But if I’m going to have to go back to Seathwaite anyway, I may as well push on and over the summit and see if it passes.

It’s straight over at the summit, past an Indian flag billowing from the shelter. The views are nothing but a wall of cloud and rain as I tentatively start to feel my way down. People are passing me. Quite a lot of people.

My pace slows as I adjust to the pain. I dig out my last Ibuprofen, one of the magic high dose ones, though it doesn’t seem to do much. Luckily most people are also slowing at this point and we push on toward the top.

From Lingmell Col it’s a slog up the boulders. I find a slow rhythm and decide that I can get back down to Seathwaite but may have to quit there.

It’s straight over at the summit, past an Indian flag billowing from the shelter. The views are nothing but a wall of cloud and rain as I tentatively start to feel my way down. People are passing me. Quite a lot of people. I keep standing aside and apologising as I let them by.

There’s no way I can dash across the slippy boulders as we come by Broad Crag and Great End. I tag onto the tail end of a group that passed me and give myself a talking too:

“Look, brain, in a moment pace is going to pick up. I’m going to spend the next three hours taking 160 strides a minute. That’s…” I do the maths, “…15,000 steps on each foot. Are you going to yell at me 15,000 times to tell me I’m in pain? Or are you gonna put on your big boy pants and use that energy to get me down this mountain?”

And so, as soon as we leave the boulder field, I start to push myself. It takes time to find my confidence again. I start to pass people. Someone else falls and it’s my turn to be the hand helping them up.

By the time I pass Styhead Tarn again I’m on one. The pain hasn’t stopped. It’s more turned into some masochistic motivation to go hard at the descent. It’s become an accelerant rather than a brake.

I start to sing to keep myself in the zone. Old school hip hop, as it happens. Sorry if you overheard but, in my defence, sometimes you really can do it if you put your ass into it. The gluteus maximus is important to good running form, though I’m not sure that’s what Ice Cube had in mind when he wrote the song.

I arrive back in Seathwaite to the clanging of cow bells and the sight of Irn Bru. Apologies to the checkpoint volunteers for my excessive enthusiasm but what a time to be alive. Irn Bru at an aid station. Red Bull might give you wings but, facing the brutalities of British mountains and weather, I’d rather be made in Scotland from girders.

From there I fall in with another runner and we keep pace, chatting for the next few miles. We both had in mind a sub-six finish so the pace was beneficial. I fell again coming along the river in Borrowdale, the pain having affected my movement, but was back up and going quickly.

There’s a steep but not too long climb into Watendlath but from there you know it’s the home straight. We had about an hour to cover the remaining 10km.

In my head the trail back to Keswick was going to be smooth single track but no such luck. Fast muddy sections interspersed with more slippy rocks. I stack it for a third time but the adrenaline response is quicker this time and it doesn’t effect my pace.

A tiny stone trapped in my shoe reduces me from feeling like a wounded Spartan to the Princess from the Princess and the Pea in about ten seconds. I can’t say I’m thrilled with the transition.

I’m constantly watch checking. Given a worst case scenario distance of 45km, we’re a fraction too slow for the sub-six. A road section and two rapid kilometres rectify that. Back through the trails and the target time is ours to throw away.

Cue the inevitable. A tiny stone trapped in my shoe reduces me from feeling like a wounded Spartan to the Princess from the Princess and the Pea in about ten seconds. I can’t say I’m thrilled with the transition.

I should stop but no way am I risking my finish time on a minute of emptying a shoe. Suck it up, crack on. The yellow pack of the lad I was running with is starting to distance itself but we’re both still motoring.

We hit the east shore of Derwentwater and it’s time to give it the beans. I look at the watch. We’ve got this. Calm head, consistent pace. The sound of cheering and clapping greets us as one by one we thread past the ice cream parlour and the finish line appears.

I want a sprint finish but it just isn’t there, my leg won’t move that way so it’s a steady pace up through the finish arch. The announcer calls my number, a lovely wooden medal is hung round my neck and I slump in a Salomon branded deck chair and try not to cry.

I’ll take that for a race. I wasn’t super fast, the conditions weren’t great, but I learned that my body can keep going off adrenaline and sheer bloody-minded belligerence alone.

For much of Monday, I had an ice pack tied to my left thigh. The tendon where quad meets knee is not ecstatic about the race effort. I’ve mainly been limping, couldn’t bend the leg properly, and the bump has that mix of purple and yellow that looks more like a Van Gogh colour palette than human flesh.

Worth it? You bet it was.

Gear: Salomon S/Lab Speed 2, Salomon S/Lab Sense 8 Vest, Salomon Bonnati Race waterproof, Suunto 9 Baro, Harvey’s British Mountain Map of the Lake District, Maurten Gels

Many thanks to Grand Day Out Photography for the photos.